


Christmas Tree

by Agents_R_Us



Series: Morse Code: A Year [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Tree, F/F, Fluff and Crack, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 17:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13300206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agents_R_Us/pseuds/Agents_R_Us





	Christmas Tree

Trip curses as another bauble flies off the tree and goes bouncing across their apartment’s tiled floors. It cracks on the second hit, and by the fourth, it’s not much more than a few pieces forming a sad little pattern in the kitchen.

Bobbi, clad in an oversized sweatshirt and joggers, goes running in after it. She's laughing hysterically. It’s the fifth casualty of the day, but neither seem to mind. Daisy tries not to let Bobbi's indifference sting. It shouldn't.

“Which one was it?” shouts the brunette, craning her neck to see past Bobbi’s shrouding figure.

The doctor holds a piece of the shattered ball up for inspection. “Bargain bin number… two,” she says definitively.

Her wife sighs. They’d picked up three of those, as well as four of another pattern, and this was the second to break.

“Try not to hit the last one, okay?” she says pointedly, eyeing Trip.

“Who? Me?” says the trainer, with the air of someone who would be gesturing wildly if they weren’t carrying the back end of a Christmas tree.

“Yes—”

“Hey!” calls Bobbi, still crouching in the kitchen. “Can we fight _after_ taking the tree out? You’re letting the heat out, and if you hadn’t noticed, we’re in some kind of crazy cold front.”

This effectively galvanizes them into action, though Daisy finds she can’t resist muttering a few obscenities under her breath as skin meets bitter outside air. The IT professional has never been especially good with cold, which usually is only ever a problem in air conditioning. Lately, though, climate change has been messing with the weather so much that she’d had to buy a thick, puffy coat on Amazon—the first she’d ever owned.

Georgia-grown Bobbi is, by contrast, a burning furnace, and probably much stronger then Daisy is, but she’s been sick the past forty-eight hours, so Trip came by to help them take out the tree.

Daisy _should_ be thankful, and she is, but Trip’s jokes are grating on her in a way they shouldn’t—in a way they never do—and her arms and head feel like blender Jell-O.

The second she starts to focus on that, her ears start pounding like the base in a rock song, so she doesn’t focus.

“You know, at least we’re not up north,” she says, panting, as Trip leads them onto the sidewalk and down to where his car is parked. “I read it got down to, like, negative a hundred, or something.”

Trip scoffs like he doesn’t believe her. “Really? ‘Cause I read it was negative one-hundred and twenty.”

“Yeah,” mutters Daisy, wishing she were standing next to him so she could exact revenge.

They reach Trip’s car, both out of breath, and stop to stretch. Bulk trash goes in the complex’s pile, to be picked up every other Monday (or, tomorrow, as Daisy had figured out between trips to Publix this morning—Bobbi needed more tissues, and then soup). The only problem is the pile’s home is about a quarter of a mile from their doorstep.

But they’re both relatively young, relatively healthy people, so they manage in a couple minutes. They throw their tree on top of the pile and stand there for a moment, breathing hard. Daisy hates the way the icy air feels trapped in her lungs, but it’s better than the pounding, explosive feeling in her chest when she tries to hold her breath.

Trip recovers faster. He immediately pulls out his phone and texts Robbie they’re done. Daisy’s just caught up when he slides the phone back into his pocket.

“You wanna get lunch?” he asks. “Isn’t there a Fuddruckers near here?”

Daisy grins at him. “Fuddruckers? What, you get food poisoning from Whole Foods?”

“Cheat day, all day, baby.”

She forces a laugh, wondering what’s wrong with her and why she feels so _off_.

“Yeah, I’m game.” Maybe it will make her feel better.

(It doesn’t, but when she ends up puking mid-meal, they figure she’s got the same thing Bobbi had last night. Trip drives her home, still laughing, and she immediately collapses onto the couch, content that it was the impending fever and cough that wrecked her mood.)


End file.
